


onus domini divinitatis

by orphan_account



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Crime, Gradual Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15690057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Hank Anderson is given a Mission. A capital M kind of Mission, one that must be accomplished for the Greater Good and a Higher Purpose, given to him by an angel.Literally.It's all bullshit. He doesn't believe in the divine, in Heaven or Hell.But some oddities are hard to deny, and when Connor, the belligerent angel sent down to help Hank accomplish his duties, keeps searching for the truth, even when it hurts, Hank can't turn away.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hello my friends!
> 
> this fic takes a healthy dose of inspiration from: crime shows + dante's inferno + good omens, three of my favorite things in life
> 
> currently planning to update every 7-10 days w/ 10+ chapters planned, but we'll see how life goes. :')

“You would do well to remember this,” the Superior says. “They are inferior creatures. There is only one human that you may reveal your true nature to—the one who has been chosen for this Great Mission.”

The angel kneels at the Superior's feet, a cascade of wings dutifully obscuring their face. There is no need for further discussion; their job is to obey. They plunge through the heavens, coordinates burned into their mind.

 

* * *

  

 _ **onus domini divinitatis**_  
  
― _the burden of divinity_ ―

prologue

 

* * *

 

 

Hank steps out of his car with a heavy sigh.

He’s moving through the motions, as always. Turning on the television to watch reruns of Gears games, the commentary floating through one ear and out of the other. Sumo padding over to nuzzle at his thigh when he hears the bag of kibble being opened.

He spares a moment to glance around his house, which is unfortunately just as messy and empty as he’d remembered leaving it in the afternoon. Everything is just such a hassle these days. Cooking. Cleaning. In a way, this is what he deserves—a constant reminder that this is all he is, a person rotting away in his own filth.

Putting away that somber, depressing thought for later, when he has a glass of whiskey in his hand, he kneels down and scratches his dog behind the ears. He gets up with a long, low groan. Getting old is hell on the joints.

Hank shuffles around the corner, jaw going slack at what he finds when he opens the door to his bedroom.

The— _thing_ is humanoid, or at least he assumes so. There are feathers, and thus wings, but he can’t tell how many pairs there are. Six? Sixteen? It’s so hard to focus. The thing is emitting a preternatural light, pulsing a glossy obsidian black and a blaring white so bright that it feels blue in intervals.

Dozens of eyes train on Hank. Too many limbs, too many moving parts and pieces. Hank’s ears are overloaded and he feels as though they could begin bleeding at any moment. Whatever this thing is, it’s _monstrous_ , great, and terrible. Covering his ears and clamping his eyes shut, Hank shouts, “Make it stop, _fuck, make it stop_!”

Whatever it is, it does understand English. It takes a moment to process, then all of its freaky appendages retract. By the time Hank opens his eyes again, the thing looks like a freshly-scrubbed young man, naked and unashamed of that, soft brown eyes studying the cop.

“My apologies,” the creature says softly, affecting a warm tone. Hank is shocked, still shaking, knowing that he’s seen something otherworldly. “I was told by the Superior that showing you my true nature would make our communications more expedient.”

Hank slowly regains his senses, ears still ringing. “Okay, first of all, is there some reason you’re nude in my bedroom?”

“Angels have no need for clothing,” it explains. Hank’s eyes automatically gravitate lower, finding nothing there where a crotch should be—and  _woah_ , his brain finally catches up with the words.

“ _Angel?_ ”

The thing quirks its head. The motion is not unlike what Sumo would do if he were desperate for attention and a belly rub. “Yes. Unless angels desire to have a sex or specific genitalia, we generally do not have them. However you perceive me is fine.”

Hank balks, continuing to avert his eyes while scrambling through his drawers and pulling out a pair of boxers and a t-shirt. “Well, whatever. I’m human, and I need a stiff drink before I try and figure out what the hell an _angel_ could possibly have broken into my house to tell me. Put those on and meet me in the living room when you’re done.”

 

//

 

Calling this strange would be an understatement. _Strange_ is a sudden shower in the middle of a perfectly sunny day; getting a call from his aunt who lives in western Texas about nothing in particular; bumping into an old friend on the train by accident.

 _This_ is absurd.

Gunning down half a glass of liquor, Hank exhales heavily, pressing the cup against his forehead as he hangs his head. “An honest-to-God angel. Holy hell.” As Sumo comes over to sniff at the intruder in their home, Hank belatedly realizes that maybe this is bad form—blaspheming right in front of what the bible refers to as a messenger of God. Then again, he’s never been a Christian. His father’s always been a cynical atheist, his mother uninterested in church. “You got a name?”

“Connor,” the angel answers primly, toying with the frayed hem of the boxers that Hank has loaned it. It doesn’t seem particularly offended by Hank’s foul language, so he figures that angels are above caring about human failings. It’s looking more and more human by the minute, which is strange. It— _he_ —looks like Sinatra or something, those guys from old movies and posters, a sinewy figure in black and white, as hapless and friendly as they had been dangerous, carrying pistols and rucking up girls’ skirts in lounge clubs.

Hank lets a beat pass before he talks again, swirling the ice in the glass around. “What kinda business d’you have with me?”

Connor moves before Hank blinks, and suddenly he’s close. He’s impossibly warm—he almost scalds Hank when he reaches for his arm. When the cop hisses, the angel recognizes the issue, lowering his core temperature to something much milder. “You have been chosen for a higher purpose, Hank Anderson,” he murmurs, voice still ringing with an eerie quality. “There is a creature from the other side that I must track down. They’ve been with the humans for quite some time. You have been chosen to help me in my cause.”

He pushes the angel’s face away, because goddamn, Connor has no concept of personal space. “Okay, first of all, I ain’t the type to be _chosen_ for anything, let alone this. I don’t believe in God. Hell, I’m hoping that once I go to sleep, I’ll realize that this is just some sick sort of fever dream. That maybe I been workin’ in homicide too long, start really thinking I’m seein’ monsters.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Connor says, which, of course, explains nothing. “It will take a human to find the mark.”

Hank scoffs, flicking the angel the finger. “The Lord can eat shit. Now get out. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. I had a long day at work and I’m too tired for this.”

Connor stands up, all fluid grace and unblinking eyes. “We will revisit this in the morning, Lieutenant Anderson. Good evening.”

In a flash of light, the angel disappears, the only sign of his presence a circle of ash where his feet had been on the rug moments ago. Sumo whines lightly, but the noise must be muted for the dog—Hank feels as though his head has been wrung through a blender twice over.

It’s going to take a lot more whiskey for Hank to shake the unease out of his bones.

 

//

 

He has a spoonful of cereal up to his mouth when the angel reappears. “Hello, Lieutenant,” Connor says, scaring the ever-living piss out of the cop. Luckily, he’s still wearing the shirt and the boxers from before; better still, he’s not glowing. “Have you thought more about your Mission?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Hank curses, half-choking on a mouthful of cornflakes. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

The angel seems to process the question for thirty, forty, fifty seconds. Hank is starting to wonder if he’s going to spill his whole life story about whatever drama he has to live through in Heaven, but then Connor opens his mouth again. “I believe this is a question about my well-being, asked out of a curiosity to get to know me better. Correct?”

Where does he even begin with that? For now, Hank snorts a little. “Not exactly. It was a rhetorical question, since it seems like telling you to go away in plain words isn’t working.”

Connor wrinkles his nose a little, a decidedly humanlike motion, and frowns. “I do not understand. I was of the impression that humans were fascinated with the great beyond—with having a greater purpose.”

Hank sighs, dropping his spoon against the uneven grain of his faux-wood table. “Well, not _this_ human. I just want some peace and quiet. Who says you need me to do this, anyways? I’m not special. Just some guy you could find anywhere.”

“You have been chosen for this Mission. The Supervisor has limited my movements here on the earthly plane. Without you, I cannot search the entirety of the city.”

Suddenly, Hank feels guilt crawl up his throat. He deflects, as he often does, getting defensive. “What, so you stood outside of my doorway until I started eating breakfast? Creep.”

Connor doesn’t even do him the favor of looking hurt or upset about Hank’s misplaced annoyance. “I stayed in your garage, if you must know. Though I am capable of visually masking my presence, I figured there was no need to alarm your neighbors.”

The admittance startles a laugh out of Hank. “Well, shit.” Damn good plan, for an angel. “Alright, I’ll bite. Go ahead, take a seat. Tell me all about this mission I’ve been ordained to do against my will, O Holy Angel.”

He does that nose-wiggling thing again, plopping into the seat with a pout that Hank would almost describe as petulant. The angel holds out his hand on the table, waiting for the grizzled lieutenant to take it. When Hank doesn’t move, Connor carefully threads their fingers together.

The sensation is odd. Hank feels like he’s being electrocuted and doused in water at the same time, his lungs filling with ash and liquid, collapsing under stress. It all goes away within a moment, like he’d been dreaming, and then a picture becomes clear in his head. It’s like watching an old black-and-white movie reel, but the picture is sharp; high-definition.

 _Azikiel,_ Connor’s disembodied voice tells Hank. _One of the fallen. Rumors and prophecies speak of him wreaking havoc upon on the world. It is our duty to find him before he does, to subdue him._

The picture of the other angel is not clear, but it reeks of the same spine-chilling horror that Hank had felt when he’d first seen Connor. When the angel pulls back, Hank feels the life leech out of him briefly, like a hole has been punched through his chest. He presses his palm there, just to make sure everything's still in place, and when he finds his heart thumping merrily, he lets out a shaky breath.

Connor opens his mouth and speaks normally this time. “It is excessively difficult to track the fallen. We are barred from passing through the gates of Hell, obviously, and those creatures who have chosen to disguise themselves, to live among the humans, have lost the privilege of being considered our kind. However, as a human, you should be more than capable of tracking them down. You are an authority figure, are you not?”

Hank’s lip curls. “I’m no politician. Hell, you’d have an easier time picking one of those dickheads from the FBI and looming over their shoulders for this. It’d be faster.”

“This mission is intended to be discreet,” Connor muses. “My duty is not to question why; it is to obey.”

It dawns on him, then—Connor might not be as all-powerful and all-seeing as Hank had first thought. “Your boss didn’t tell you anything else? No clues? I thought God was supposed to be omniscient.”

The angel’s jaw locks up and Hank guffaws.

Who knew that angels could be just as hapless and lost as humans, taking shots in the dark and doing jobs that nobody else wanted to do?

 

//

 

Now that Hank has begrudgingly offered to help the angel out, there’s just one problem—they don’t know where to start. “Could’ve changed their name,” Hank offers, scrolling through search results on his laptop. “Name like Azikiel would stand out, and I’m guessing that angels don’t have to wait in line at the DMV to get a driver's license.”

“No,” Connor replies, sounding distantly amused by the concept. “Humans are easy to persuade. All that they would have to do is drop a couple of hints; surprise them with powers beyond their understanding, charm them once or twice. The fallen are quite good at coercion and enticement. It’s how they’ve been winning humans to their side for millennia.”

“How long’s this fallen angel been gone from Heaven? Couple of months?” Hank looks up with a scowl when Connor remains silent. “Years?”

“Time does not pass in the way that it does for humans,” the angel quietly says. “It hasn’t been long for those of us from Heaven, but it could’ve been decades ago in earthly time.”

“Fuck,” Hank curses, slamming his laptop closed and frustratedly stomping a foot on the ground. “Trail’s probably cold by now. What am I supposed to be looking for? Weird rumors of some demon trawling the streets?”

Connor sighs. “I’m not sure. Unlikely events. Obscene deaths. Miraculous recoveries. Cults. Anything, really.”

“Jesus,” Hank mutters. “Welcome to Detroit.”

The cynical joke passes right over Connor’s pretty little head, not that Hank expected otherwise. For now, Hank decides to go take a shower, head to work, see if he can find out anything new.

Working in homicide exposes Hank to the strange ones more than he would like, after all.

 

//

 

Being called into Jeffrey’s office is a rarity these days. Most times, Hank knows that his old friend will give him a pass, let him work his paltry homicides, write him up for tardiness or slacking off; lather, rinse, repeat. The voice in his head—that is to say, the angel hiding his presence to the rest of the precinct—tells Hank, _the potential for divine intervention is high._

Though he has no idea if Connor can hear his thoughts or not, Hank loudly thinks, _I don’t believe in divine intervention_. Connor must get the gist of it regardless, because Hank can tell that the angel is rolling his eyes in exasperation.

He’s lucky that Jeffrey’s not in a yelling mood. Calm and quiet, telling Hank to do his work before he strangles him, same old, same old. He hops in his car and drives to the scene with his music blaring. Connor makes himself visible only to give the lieutenant some company.

The homicide’s pretty disgusting as far as they go—guy murdered with mud and dirt shoved into all of his orifices, one eye cut out of his skull. Premeditated. It reeks of revenge, but it’s sloppy. Not a high-profile killer trying to prove his wit and skill, but someone trying to make this guy suffer.

Hank doesn’t blame them. Victim’s got cocaine busting out of the walls, dirty condoms slung across the floor. Not exactly society’s most pleasant human.

No, the weird part comes from the message on the wall, scribbles in pencil that are barely legible. _Expose the Truth_ , it reads. There’s a sigil that nobody recognizes—Ben, Chris, and even Connor, the heavenly being, do not know the significance.

Maybe it’s nothing. One time thing. Some perp just getting their rocks off on leading the police around by the nose. Something to show their worth, to show that the murder means something.

 _Divine intervention_ , Connor oh-so-politely reminds Hank, who is starting to believe that Connor is just the jerkoff segment of his personality hopped up on Jesus Juice. His body’s way of telling him to get his life together, lay off the pizza and booze.

Right now, Hank would like nothing more than for Connor to materialize, just so he could punch him right in the jaw.

 

//

 

Connor pours over the file that Hank brings home. Examines every photograph like he’ll find gold inside of them, cataloguing every detail. Hank watches him, idly petting his dog’s big head.

TV’s boring on Tuesday nights, so Hank throws the angel a line. “Go ahead, ace detective. Tell me what you see.”

Tilting his head in curiosity, Connor says, “In that context, wouldn’t _you_ be more qualified to be the detective?”

Hank rolls his eyes. “I’m just trying to make conversation. You wanna find your mark, we gotta work together. That’s what _you_ said. Do a little footwork by yourself.” He can see Connor opening his mouth to make some pedantic statement about pacing around and he cuts him off cold. “Just do it, you fuckin’ asshole, Christ.”

“Taking the Lord’s name in vain,” Connor airily teases, “Yet another mark for your good graces, Lieutenant Anderson.”

“Shut up and make yourself useful.”

He’s quiet for a minute. Putting together the puzzle pieces. With the soft curl of hair starting to fall into his eyes, he really does look human—a young man, deep in concentration, desperate to put a criminal behind bars.

Connor details the scene well. Figures out the placement of all the players; it’s blocking, really. Baseline forensic science. Hank could’ve told him all the same things in half as much time. He has the experience under his belt, after all.

Then the angel touches on the parts that’ve been bothering Hank himself. The sigil—is it original? Based on a certain mythology? If so, which one? Greek? Egyptian? Norwegian?

More importantly, the _eye_. Why had the suspect cut out the man’s eye? Unlike simply suffocating the victim with dirt to end his life, that had been done to send a message, much like the scribbled letters on the wall.

“I think we need to find it,” Connor finally says, staring at the photos so sternly that Hank is half-afraid they’re going to go up in flames.

“Jesus,” Hank groans. “The damn thing’s probably in Canada already if the perp has a shred of intelligence.”

“No.” Dark eyes flick up to his new partner’s ice blues. “Our mark thought this out. They have a purpose, or they _think_ they do. There should be clues at the scene. Something leading us to the next piece of the puzzle.”

Hank closes his eyes, humming in thought. Running a hand through his hair, he says, “Forensics’ll be crawling all over the scene. Might even have the place cleaned up. They could turn something up, but otherwise…”

When he trails off, Connor comes to the same conclusion that Hank does.

Worst case scenario, they wait for the criminal to strike again.

Both of them grimace at the idea.

 

//

 

A man slips into a dim chamber, blood dripping down the right leg of his trousers.

Several heads turn at his arrival, suddenly alert. He holds up a hand to silence them, voice strained by pain.

“We have a problem.”

Where the man’s shirt is ripped, a sigil burns bright.

His companions suddenly recognize his urgency.

A problem indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! ♡
> 
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	2. chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for joining me on this journey, though my update schedule may be a bit messy. i truly love and appreciate all of you!
> 
> enjoy! ♡♡♡

The Warehouse, which is not its formal name, but they’ve adopted it, for lack of anything _better_ to call it, is a dingy, dilapidated building on the outskirts of southwest Detroit.

The ceiling beams are beginning to collapse, shattered rusty red shapes holding up broken metal panels used for cheap roofing in a foregone time. Fractured cement flooring is another element of the welcoming atmosphere, alongside the dusty bits of drywall, cracking easily with a touch.

It is in this place that they hold Devotion.

They recall their activities. Hum the hymnals. Their voices do not so much echo as they fade into the wilderness, wispy murmurs of dozens, unnoticed by outsiders. This is their due diligence. This is a requirement. They cannot afford to have this place get discovered―at least, not _yet_.

One member steps forth and kneels down, pressing his forehead to the cold ground. The crowd moves into a circle around him, illuminated by the small patch of moonlight shining through the beams.

It is a joyous moment. One worth celebrating.

Soon, the world will know the truth.

 

* * *

  

 _ **onus domini divinitatis**_  
  
― _the burden of divinity_ ―

chapter 1

 

* * *

 

 

Hank is truly getting too old for this shit.

It’s not as if he’s a spry young beat-cop, eager to snap his jaws at the first available tip, searching through hell and high water to find the implication of a clue.

Connor, the _angel_ , has him searching through the grass looking for some poor fucker’s eyeball. The only thing stopping Hank from throwing his hands up and cursing the guy out six ways to Sunday is the fact that the weather’s temperate.

It also helps that Connor’s the only one forcing himself to stick his pale, skinny legs into the Detroit river and wade around for clues. Hank is leaning against his passenger door, letting out a loud yawn, while the messenger of God searches for this imperative clue.

He’s only been around Connor for two weeks, but Hank has managed to get to know him pretty well. Though he’d put up a fuss the first few times Connor had asked to go in the areas around the scene of the freak-homicide—searching through yards, looking in trash cans, and even, awkwardly enough, opening mailboxes for clues—Hank had given in rather easily today.

He can tell Connor takes this seriously—the whole _Mission_ thing. He really does seem to believe that the fate of the world depends on his success and that Hank is crucial to the Divine Plan or whatever.

Once the sun goes down and Connor gets frustrated, Hank drives them to his favorite diner. Connor doesn’t need to eat, or so he says, so Hank usually grabs take-out and drives home, but he doesn’t feel like being holed up in the house with the angel’s foul mood looming over them like a storm-cloud.

Hank walks in like he owns the place. If he had the money or desire, he _would_ ; the place is a dump, but the food’s good and the servers all know who he is, so he keeps coming back.

“Well, well,” Rachel, a heavyset white woman with a southern drawl, smirks a little bit when she sees him. “First time I ever seen you with company. Who’s this pretty l’il thing?”

All Hank does in response is roll his eyes. When Connor tilts his head and looks down at the lieutenant inquisitively, Hank pats the area beside him in the booth. Without hesitating, the angel plops his bony ass down, eager eyes sliding over to Hank, looking for approval.

Rachel cackles when Hank sputters, cheeks burning while he scowls, refusing to make excuses and make an even bigger fool of himself. “I’ll have the usual,” he grumbles. The server ruffles Hank’s hair affectionately before flouncing off to the kitchen.

Once she’s gone, Connor lowers his head and blinks his dark eyes at Hank. “What is _the usual_?”

Hank sighs, motioning for Connor to scoot over and give him some space. “It’s a cheeseburger, no tomatoes, extra pickles. Fries and—actually, who cares? You can’t eat. What’s it matter to you?”

“Your health is of interest to me, Lieutenant. I am unable to complete my mission without your assistance, after all.”

Unfurling his napkin and pointing the knife at Connor’s face, Hank starts to rant. “I’m so fuckin’ sick a you sayin’ that. Can’t you talk about _anything_ else? It’s like the only thing programmed inside your halo-choked little head is how to be a pain in the ass.”

An awkward silence falls between them as Connor shifts in place, processing the words and coming up with things to say. There are many phenomena that he’s experienced with no vocabulary to accompany them. The distant knowledge that eons are passing from afar, but having no real comprehension of a minute, an hour, a day. Just observations of light, of darkness. Things that had been imperative to his previous position hold no meaning now, and trying to describe Heaven to Hank would be like banging his head against a brick wall. Not only he is forbidden to do so, but Hank would likely not understand what he has to say.

The Mission is all he has. Even regarding that, there is much that Hank is not to know. Connor doesn’t know the exact answers either. The Superior has deemed such information irrelevant to his task.

Letting out a dark sigh, Hank slumps down in the booth. “I didn’t mean to make you upset. We just need to find you a hobby. TV, games, books; _something_ better to do than searching for an eyeball at all hours of the day and trailing me around like a puppy.”

“But you _like_ dogs, Lieutenant Anderson.”

Hank rolls his eyes. “That’s not the point, Connor.” Rachel comes back around with a large cup of soda, then a red squeeze bottle full of ketchup. He nods at her, taking a long sip of his drink. Once he’s finished, he rests his chin on the back of one hand, staring at the guileless angel next to him. “You gotta take your mind off’a work sometimes. It’s what keeps us humans from going nuts. So tell me—what do you _like_ to do?”

Connor draws a blank, looking back at Hank steadily. He opens and closes his mouth a few times. It’s obvious that the man expects him to say something, and Connor is nothing if not eager to please. Brown eyes close, then open again slowly. “I enjoy the sensation of Sumo’s fur against my hand.”

Before, he couldn’t describe his own body as something corporeal. He couldn’t _feel_ things, before. He still doesn’t necessarily feel things in the way that, say, Hank might, but seeing, touching, smelling—he’s much closer to being able to do those things now, in this form, than he had been as a pure being from above, even if it’s all just a ploy.

All of this is for Hank’s sake. For his comfort. _That_ much, even Connor knows. His place is not to question the Superior, not to question the reasons why, or the methods by which the goals of the higher powers are accomplished.

The kind server returns with a plate of steaming food right when Hank’s exasperation hits its peak. He thanks Rachel before he starts to chide Connor, tearing into his fries with gusto. Hank has to puff around a mouthful, they’re so hot. When he speaks, his words are muffled. “Pettin’ my dog ain’t a hobby. It’s just a time-waster, like flipping through channels.” Once he swallows, he tears into the burger, humming in pleasure at the taste. “Or are you too removed from humanity to enjoy things?”

It’s a pointed barb, mostly aimed to get a rise out of Connor. He knows Connor has _some_ emotions—hell, Hank’s just as disappointed as the angel is that they can’t seem to catch a break on this case. But seeing Connor look so vacant, so lost in the absence of clear instructions, is really starting to get to him.

To his surprise, Connor seems genuinely concerned by the question. “I do not understand what it means to enjoy things in the way that you do, Lieutenant. I’ve never been given a chance to walk the Earth before. Do you believe it beneficial to my mission that I try to acquire a hobby?”

Hank claps a sympathetic hand on the angel’s shoulder. “If you’re gonna stick around here for a while, then yeah. Bet your ass I do.”

Both of them are startled when the moment is interrupted, the annoying buzz of Hank’s cell making the cop jump in his seat.

It’s not a phone call—it’s a text. From Chris.

_You’ve got a new case. Another nasty one. Fowler must really love giving you his dirty work._

Hank will be a cynic until his dying day, but even he’s starting to feel like he’s being setup. The moment he gets Connor to accept that things didn't always fall in their laps right when they needed them to, this goes and happens.

He can almost hear the prick’s voice in his head, even though Connor’s not invisible. He’s staring at nothing in particular, waiting for Hank to finish fiddling with his phone, to see if he’ll say anything.

 _Divine intervention_.

The very idea leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Human coincidences and horrors are far easier for him to believe in than the idea of God having a hand in Hank’s shitty everyday life. After all, if God truly is real, and if they had authority, had the _ability_ to interfere, then what could explain Cole’s unwarranted death?

Nothing, that’s what. It’s not worth lingering over. He shakes his head.

For the first time in a long time, Hank asks Rachel for a to-go box, then motions for Connor to scoot out of the booth so they can head down to the station. She fusses at Hank for leaving without catching up with her, but he leaves a hefty tip and apologizes hastily.

If the stars are going to keep miraculously aligning for them—if only just barely—he has to hit the trail while it’s hot, see if they can garner any more information from this mystery murderer before their mark disappears again.

 

//

 

It’s a dead woman this time.

The apartment is well-organized, the off-white walls neat, decorated with a couple of framed art pieces, giving the place some warmth and ambiance. There are a few dishes in the sink, one or two articles of clothing lying around haphazardly, but for the most part, the place is clean. Nice. It smells a bit, but Hank and his fellow members of the DPD are used to much nastier crime scenes.

She’s laid out very politely, still fully clothed. No signs of sexual foul play, no marks of revenge like the last guy. While the last one had felt more like a distasteful crime of passion with an underlying message, this one feels more like. Well—

“Like a sacrifice, isn’t it?” Ben Collins chimes in under his breath. He seems to realize that Hank is listening only after he’s muttered the words, so he clears his throat and guides him through the scene. Unfortunately, Hank agrees with him.

Connor’s invisible again, for lack of an explanation for his presence to the other cops. Unknown civilians certainly wouldn't be allowed on crime scenes. Worst case scenario, Ben, Chris, and the rest of the bunch would believe Connor to be involved in the murder, or think him an eyewitness. Better for him to go disguised, then, Hank figures. No harm in it.

He’s wandering around the apartment, shadowing the grunts searching the place stupid.

One of the victim’s eyes is gauged out, but it hasn’t traveled far this time. In fact, it’s still in the victim’s hand. Hank has seen nastier things, certainly, but his stomach for the shit hasn’t gotten any stronger. He’s still queasy, watching the forensic techs pull on long gloves to analyze her body and examine the eye without prying it out of her stiff fingers.

This is the oddest crime scene that Hank has been to in some time. She looks peaceful, like she’s asleep. Death by household narcotic overdose—sleeping pills. The woman had died of her own accord. This had been an  _informed_ death.

But why? Pressure from the murderer? An accident?

Suicidal tendencies?

The last thought hits just a little too close to home for Hank. He shakes his head clear.

“They found her this morning because a friend of hers called around trying to find her. Been there for two or three days, tops. Nobody had heard from her, and she wasn’t the type to skip out of work without notice. People kept calling around, and they got the spare key from the apartment when they figured she might still be home, just passed out or something. You can see the rest for yourself.”

Hank’s shoulder is bumped when Gavin Reed slams into him forcefully. “The smell of day-old booze must really attract all the crazies, huh?”

The lieutenant rolls his eyes. Reed is a beady-eyed, petty piece of shit. He’s short, scrappy, and determined to get on Hank’s last fucking nerve. Hank can feel Connor staring at him as he brazenly ignores the young detective—certainly a different reaction than he gives the others from the precinct.

“You goin’ deaf in your old age, Anderson?” His accent is thick as he postures for attention. Hank grits his teeth to keep from punching Reed across the bridge of his crooked nose. “How hard are you suckin’ Fowler’s dick to get precedence on the game-changers, especially when you haven’t given a shit about your job in years?”

Hank would love nothing more than to choke Reed out, but he refuses to give the rat-bastard the satisfaction. Instead, he just smiles and politely continues on his merry little way, which makes Gavin curse under his breath and leave, his early investigation now concluded by Hank’s arrival.

Still, _he_ doesn’t learn much more than Reed had. Most of this is out of his arena.

However, Connor has gleaned something from turning her apartment upside down. The forensic techs are taking a scrap of paper back to a lab in order to analyze the handwriting, but the same sigil from the last murder is scribbled on the front side.

On the back, it says, ‘the eye will guide you to the truth’.

_The iris of her removed eye is pointing to the southwest. That sign—it must have something to do with vision. Revealing things. I think we should try to investigate that part of the city._

Hank can’t completely discredit the idea, but this is getting dangerously close to absurd. Almost like all of Connor’s bullshit about prophecy, knowing that their mark was going to strike again—like it’s _true_.

Fuck.

“I’ll let you mess around with my phone later. Map it out on the GPS. I’m not just going to wander around Detroit aimlessly to satiate your desire for chasing down eyeballs.”

He spares one last glance at the girl’s blood-caked eye-socket before excusing himself, driving home in silence. Connor makes himself visible in the passenger seat, and though Hank is usually spooked when he does that, right now, he’s set at ease to know that the angel is sitting there, looking as prim and proper as always, staring out of the windows in awe and confusion.

Connor looks dangerously youthful right now, and beautiful, besides. It’s strange, to think about him coolly hunting down his prey to punish them in the name of the Lord. Hank forces himself to focus all of his attention on the road. After all, staring at Connor could quite literally burn his eyes. He’d been blinded by the angel’s arrival, hadn’t he?

It’s a shame that this is what he’s been forced down here to deal with, rather than christening babies or helping flowers bloom, or whatever. It’s the first time in a while that Hank has asked himself, if there really _is_ an omniscient being looking over everything they do, what in the hell are they planning?

 

//

 

A young woman slams her palm down on the table. “It’s not safe for you out there. That cult, the signs, the storm signaling _their_ arrival—you know it’s all coming to fruition. Don’t go.”

“He _has_ to go,” a blonde man off to the left says from the shadows, a grim scowl on his face at the prospect. “They’re going to find us sooner or later because of that stupid sect, and we should be the ones to make the first move.”

“This place is in danger if he reveals himself,” a third voice chimes in frustratedly, fingers balled at his sides as he glares. After a beat, he sighs tiredly and unclenches his fists. “But you’re going to go, no matter what we say, aren’t you?”

The man in the center of the room nods solemnly.

His companions grow quiet, then they all grant him peace, squeezing his shoulders for good luck before he disappears into the ether.

The blonde closes his eyes and places a hand over his heart. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

A scoff sounds from his right. “You and I both know his soft-heartedness is going to get him killed someday. I just hope that, for all of our sakes, his luck holds out, and that day isn't today.”

The break from their meeting in dark spirits, wishing for the best, despite the odds.

 

//

 

“Anderson _,_ ” the Superior says. “Yes, Hank Anderson. He’s in the right place, the right time, and he meets all the conditions of the prophecy. It was a given that he would be the one chosen for this role. The incident of three years ago sealed the deal.”

Silence.

The Superior smiles. “Isn’t that the allure of irony? A nonbeliever fulfilling the duties of the Lord against his will. Quite entertaining to watch.”

Another pause, then the Superior hums.

“Perhaps you’re right. But you knew that, of course. Still, isn’t it interesting to watch them dance?”

Both of them are amused by the comment, and they continue observing from afar, forever the detached judges of humankind.

Eternity stretches on and on, so they must get their bursts of entertainment in intervals when they can, and what better time than the present to watch their machinations unfold?

 

_—to be continued._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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